You want
by A Slash Fangirl
Summary: Touching you shouldn't make me want you even more. Seth/Martin, rated for slash and slight profanity
1. Chapter 1

_Touching you shouldn't make me want you even more. Seth/Martin_

_This is something that came from an orifice in my mind that shall not be named. With the dreaded 2__nd__ person point of view._

_I don't own anything. _

_Warnings for the reading ahead: Future slash (same-sex couple) and slight profanity_

It's a Tuesday, and you're spinning a basketball on your finger while staring at the running figures doing laps around the gym. (Seventh graders, you recall, are the ones to who do nothing but laps during the first few weeks with Dirga. You never had to do them, natural athleticism does have its perks after all). And there's a bit of sweat running down your skin and you have the urge to wipe it off. But that'll mean stopping the basketball and you've always wanted to see how long you could go without letting it fall.

You notice it when the stragglers attempt to finish the last laps before Dirga starts the countdown. Behind a Goth girl with way too much make-up and a boy who's sweating profusely, you see a little boy in too-big gym clothes struggling to keep up. His stride is a bit on the slow side, running at his own pace, at ease with being last. Coach starts counting down, but the boy doesn't seem to go faster. In fact, it looks like he _wants_ to be last.

The one leaves her lips slowly, and there's a smirk on her face as the guy sprints to her side. She tells everyone to hit the showers, but pulls him back by his shirt.

You can't hear the conversation, -in hushed, soft whispers- but you can see what she's telling him might be rather… stressful? Yeah, stressful is a nice word.

His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to protest, but decides it is better not to. She continues to speak, before turning him around and softly pushing him in your direction.

"Powers!" she yells, and you jump a good foot in the air, the basketball falling to the ground. "Here," she says, gesturing to the boy –_he looks like a fucking angel_. "You're gonna train him, the guy can't run to save his life," you glance at him, see him give you a smile and you return it. "Martin Qwerly, Seth Powers. Seth Powers, Martin Qwerly,"

He puts a hand out for you to shake, you just stare at it.

"Come to the gym after school, we'll start from there," you tell him. Taking note of how he can't stop smiling, seriously, doesn't his face hurt? He nods quickly, walking off and out of the door.

_This must be love-at-first-sight or whatever they call it. _

At lunch, you're sitting with your friends. Other pretty and popular people, because why should you be with the losers and band geeks? A slur of notes comes from your side of the table, behind you, so you look and see Martin holding a horn (_trumpet, whatever you call it_) to his lips and more notes escape the instrument.

He's surrounded by other band geeks, people that cheer and clap when he does something right. Friends that love and support him. Not like yours, all vain and shallow and blonde-haired, blue eyed kids whose IQs _couldn't even compare_ with his.

_You want him and you don't even know it. _

He catches your eye and you want to say something to him. But no noise comes out and you're just there with your mouth open like an idiot.

You go back to eating… whatever the ladies gave. It looks like it'll move. Fuck it though.

After school, you're in the gym and waiting for him. He comes in with a skip in his step, wearing those too-big gym clothes. He looks _so tiny_ in his clothes, like he's going to go swimming in them.

You first start him on simply walking, expecting him to at least walk the gym in the time you give him. His steps are clumsy, feet tripping over each other, and he keeps on falling down on his face. He doesn't make the time: 6 minutes and 30 seconds. He does it in eight.

You try making him run, but that's even worse. He's too slow, and then he keeps on falling and falling. Like his shoelaces are untied and he's always tripping over them. "Stop running," you say, seeing him fall once more before getting up and sending you a smile.

"I'm not athletic," he says, "I'm built for books, not sports. I'm just going to leave now,"

He walks away slowly. And you stop him, kneeling down and tying his shoelaces (_they're always untied, you notice_) and folding his pants so the fabric doesn't get in the way. His clothes still look too big on him. "You should get smaller clothes. These," pointing to the pants, "are too big. I think that's why you're always falling,"

He grins and impulsively kisses your cheek. His lips are soft against your skin.

You want to kiss his lips now.

But you don't.


	2. Chapter 2

He tells you his life story that day: he's Martin Daniel Qwerly, has two brothers and a sister (the former older, the latter younger), he's allergic to most dairy products, and sometimes wears hand-me-downs from his two brothers.

"That explains this," you say, gesturing to the clothes he's wearing. He nods and starts on a rant about how he's compared to his siblings and his parents saying _why can't you be like Mike or Morris? _And how his siblings got scholarships to college with football and basketball, but he's actually going to do _something _with his life instead of using sports as an escape.

"I… I don't wanna be that person who relies on sports. It's better using my intelligence," and he adds in, "'No offense, but I don't wanna be like you," he notices your shocked expression. "You're obviously going to use your 'natural athleticism' -as you so eloquently put it- to do a few years of basketball in high school and maybe a bit of football. Then some scout is going to say you're perfect for the NBA or NFL, and you're getting a full ride to college if you continue with that.

"Then you're going to accept and live out your college days at training camps and whatnot,"

You tune him out after that, knowing that the guy can talk without taking a breath sometimes. Really, he once talked non-stop for a few hours!

Your mind wanders off on its own and thinks about how easy it would be to shut him up with a kiss or something.

_Lean forward and kiss him, coax his mouth open with your tongue and taste every inch of him. You can do it, it'll be so easy. Just lean forward…_

What the fuck is wrong with you?

No, Seth, think of boobs and girls and that really pretty brunette you saw a few days ago. You like females with soft skin, they smell really nice and that is_ what you want_. Not a boy._ Even though he's cuter than most of the girls here…_

Fuck. You. Mind.

"-and we all know that the popular kids are popular just because of their appearances or something, then again the list is based on facial symmetry, athleticism, school spirit, and a whole bunch of other things. In a way, the ranking was pretty interesting, because…,"

He stops before saying anything more, and there's this weird look on his face. His eyebrows are furrowed, he's leaning forward and his chin is in his hands like he's trying to think of something that requires a lot of brain power. "Because the band geeks were in the low-seventies and not the high fifties like they wanted to be?" you suggest, the tone sounds like you're mocking them.

"No," he answers, "Although that would've been nice,"

"Then what?"

"Because it was an actual equation rather than people just _saying _'oh that person is popular',"

Huh. That actually makes a bit of sense when you think about it.

He smiles at you, and you smile back. Thinking of how easy it is to just lean forward and…

Fuck.

You _still _want to kiss him.

Later, you whisper as he's packing his bag. Later.


	3. Chapter 3

Martin is wearing jeans.

Now that seems like a simple sentence, doesn't it? Martin's wearing his jeans that are still too big for him. No. Not today.

_That piece of fucking shit _you think as he walks into class. He's wearing a graphic tee with some superhero on it and black jeans that look a bit too tight on him. You're not sure if you want to punch him or drag him into one of the empty locker rooms.

The way some of the other guys stare at him makes you want to mark him or something. Their eyes are wandering whenever he stands up to stretch or pass out some papers. You want to punch all of them in their stupid faces. _Stop staring, he's mine. _

_Just grab him and drag him into the bathrooms or one of the empty locker rooms. Make sure there's an audience, you want everyone to know he's yours. He'll be embarrassed and you'll leave a hickey on his neck. You're going to make him drop to his knees and- _

Fuck, those pants must be doing things to you. No, they _are_ doing things to you.

Your pencil shakes in your hand as you try to write down some sentence about colors or something. You can't seem to write the letters down, though. It's like your brain doesn't want to function right now.

"Seth, are you okay?" Becky Sherwood asks you, waving a hand in front your eyes. "You've been out of it lately,"

That's true. You've done nothing but stress out about the fact that Martin is wearing skinny jeans. Wow, you're becoming pathetic.

"I'm fine," you say. She gives you a look that says 'that excuse means absolutely nothing to me'. "I am, don't worry,"

She raises an eyebrow, there's doubt in her eyes. "I don't believe you. Stop lying, and tell me what's really going on,"

"Nothing," you answer, glaring at her. Then going back to your work as if nothing ever happened.

After class, the halls are deserted and you're pretty sure you're late for science. But then again, you don't give a fuck. What good would science do in life? Nothing, that's all. You're wandering the halls, avoiding that stupid sixth-grade hall monitor. God, you're bored.

But as you turn a corner, there's someone else wandering the halls along with you. You see something near one of the lockers and you clench your hands into fists to make sure you're ready for to throw a good punch if needed. Then there's the sight of an unmistakable leather jacket and the '_oh shit it's Loomer, better make a break for it_' instinct -that all people seem to have- rises ever-so-slightly. He's holding someone up by the collar of his/her shirt, pressing that person against the metal of the lockers.

The person's small from what you can see. And you see familiar hair and hear the incessant babbling on about whatever's on his mind. Don't interfere, Seth. Don't you dare try to confront Loomer, it'll only end in possible death. But you walk toward the two of them, and Loomer doesn't seem to notice you. He's too busy threatening Martin with either death or something close to it.

Loomer hasn't let go of Martin yet.

So you turn around on your heel and go to science.

Might as well not be killed trying to be a hero.


End file.
